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But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
ture ; | Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style, Our ş Townsend make speeches, and I shall compile ; New || Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross over, No countryman living their tricks to discover ; Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark.
Here lies q David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confest without rival to shine; As a wit, if not first, in the very
first line : Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplacier'd with rouge, his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn’d and he varied full ten times a-day :
* The Rev. Dr. Dodd.
+ Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil tavern, under the title of “ The School of Shakespeare.”
James Macpherson, esq; who lately, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. § Vide page 99. ll Vide page 98.
Vide page 98.
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly fick,
gave? How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that
rais'u, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were beprais’d? But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel, and mix with the skies : Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall Itill be his flatterers, go where he will. Old Shakespeare, receive him, with praise and with
love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his + Kellys above.
* Vide page 102.
+ Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.
| Mr, William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle,
Here * Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant
creature, And Nander itself muft allow him good-nature : He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser : I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser: Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that : Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest ? ah no! Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn
ye, He was, could he help it ? a special attorney.
Here + Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind ; His pencil was striking, resistless and grand; His manners were gentle, complying and bland; Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : To coxcombs averse, yet most civily steering, When they judg’d without skill he was still hard of
hearing: When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios and stuff, He shifted his I trumpet, and only took snuff.
* Vide page 98.
† Ibid. | Sir Joshua Reynolds is so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.
P O S T SCRIPT.
FTER the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, from a friend of the late doctor Goldsmith.
HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,
What pity, alas! that so lib’ral a mind
* Mr.Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.
† Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that doctor Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being infected with the itch of punning.
106 P O S T SCRIPT,
Ye news paper witlings ! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb: To deck it, bring with you feftoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.
Merry Whitefoord, farewel! for thy fake I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit : This debt to thy mem’ry I cannot refuse, " Thou best humour'd man with the worst humour'd
* Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.
I Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.